


Empty. Vulnerable. Missing something.

by aprilleigh



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 22:35:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10580901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aprilleigh/pseuds/aprilleigh
Summary: "It doesn’t matter what they think," Sam said softly, trying to ignore the tiny part that wanted it to matter.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set between Sometimes a Great Notion and The Oath. Spoilers for both. I set out to write a story that could slide right into cannon- I blame the show for the bleakness. ;) Thanks to my beta- the always awesome sabaceanbabe

 

At first Sam wants to believe it was an accident. Another drunken pilot not paying attention to his belongings or which bed was his. But everything he owns is spread out across the bunk, bottles turned upside down and emptied of their contents, books and photographs ripped in half, and ‘cylon’ blazing in yellow paint across his pillow.

There is no one around, no one taking special note of his reaction. No one is concerned enough to care what he thinks.

I will not be angry, he promises himself. I will be above this.

He gathers the bedding and nearly doubles over from the foul stench. The smell hid under the worst of the rotgut alcohol, but he could smell the urine clearly now.

His belongings are saturated, and he tries not to think how many crewmates it would take to soak one bunk.

Sam launders his clothing and bedding himself, hates that he feels he must. The cold liquid soaked through the clothing he wears and he has goose flesh where the cloth clings to his skin. He strips off what he can and sits shivering against a bulkhead as his belongings tumble. He reeks of urine. He tells himself that is why no one looks at him.

* * *  
Later, when his clothes and bedding are washed, and his photographs and books and letters are thrown away, he finds himself in the pilot quarters alone with Hotdog. "After they poured the alcohol they pulled out a lighter. They were going to burn your things." Hotdog briefly meets Sam’s eyes. “I gave them another idea.

Sam can’t tell if it is an explanation or an apology, but he thinks that Hotdog expects him to be grateful.

He hates that he is.

* * *  
“Hey, Toaster. Kill anyone today?”

The third time.

“Cylon.” Whispers follow him as he walks through the ship.

The fiftieth time.

“Where’s your wife? Any chance of her killing herself again?”

The last time.

Sam turned, looked at the deckhand, and told him to frak off. He thought he said it fairly calmly, but the man flinched and backed away to huddle with his companions.

* * *  
Last week, the observation deck was at capacity, crew and guests fighting to see their sliver of blue and green. But that Earth had been a mirage. All that is left now is black and grey.

He finds her there alone, leaning against the glass, staring at nothing. Kara is a dark outline against the points of gold brightness.

He doesn’t say a word, but she knows it is him without turning around. “Before you were Sam Anders, who were you?”

The correct answer, he thought, would be the true response, regardless of how it made her feel, but he didn't know what was true. “Kara. Please don’t do this.” He said, too passionate to achieve the reasonability he was aiming for.

“I’m not doing anything.” Her voice was too soft - he missed the edge. “I need to know.” She continued to stare out into space. Sam wondered if he looked like that, too. Empty. Vulnerable. Missing something.

He thinks that this will be it. She will lash out, angry and confused, and he will take it. She will ask why he did it. How could he? Why didn’t he tell her?

He will apologize and say that he didn’t know, but he still loves her, and then maybe things could be ok. He was wrong.

“I’m Samuel T. Anders. That’s me. That’s all I know.”

“I have no idea who I am.” It seemed to Sam that she stood at the edge of a precipice, teetering, gazing down to the rocks below. He was afraid of what would happen to her when she fell. Anachronistic as it was, the impulse to hold her, protect her, shelter her was overwhelming.

“I was supposed to be their guide, Sam. We were supposed to be their way home.”

“We did. We didn’t know what we would find. It’s not our fault.”

“But it is, don’t you see that? They think it’s our fault, so it is.” She did not feel the crack in her voice on the last word, never heard it, but Sam did. Sam heard the underlying tremor to her low-spoken words.

"It doesn’t matter what they think," Sam said softly, trying to ignore the tiny part that wanted it to matter. 

* * *  
Tigh finds him.

They are in a hallway, no more sneaking off to secret meetings, but when Tigh starts talking in quiet tones, it takes all of Sam’s reserves not to brush past.

So Sam talks louder, and hopes others overhear.

"You and Kara have private quarters." He handed Sam a piece of paper, and looked at him significantly. "You are married. You've been on the waiting list a while now, and there’s finally a room open."

Sam wishes it had been anyone else, a kindness instead of an obligation. Sam can’t say thank you. Instead he points out that the date on the paperwork was when Kara was still dead. Tigh grunts, and Sam is just grateful he doesn’t have to take a folded note from the Cylon XO.

Both refuse to notice the murmurs left in their wake.

* * *  
Sam lays awake on his bunk, unable to sleep, but not willing to let anyone know he can’t. He has nowhere else to go.

He hears the hatch open, and his muscles tense.

“Out of my way, Cylon-frakker.” A change in the atmosphere, something dangerous settling in the air, a warning.

Sam is all tension, all fast breathing and focus like steel. He pulls the curtain back just enough and sees Kara enter the room, Seelix standing directly in front of her.

“Really? You really wanna do this?” If Kara is angry, he can’t hear it through the weariness.

When she gets no response, Kara brushes past Seelix, shoulder hitting shoulder too hard to be an accident.

“Freak.” Seelix’s scowl hangs like a dare in the room.

Sam sees the hurt on Kara’s face, but she hides it so well, passes it off as cold, controlled anger. She smiles, looking strangely satisfied, welcoming a chance to be mad. She turns to Seelix. “What did you call me?”

“I called you a freak. We thought you were a Cylon, which is bad enough. But even the Cylons don’t know what the hell you are.”

Sam watches as Kara’s hands clench at her sides. He pulls back the curtain the rest of the way. “Kara, let it be.”

She nods slowly and draws a deep breath before letting it out through an acidic smile. “Yeah. Wouldn’t want to keep Seelix from her job.”

“You two freaks deserve each other.” The bitterness in Seelix’s voice is almost tangible. The hatch slams shut behind her and they are alone.

* * *  
Kara stands several feet away, arms folded across her chest. Sam watches as her eyes lose focus. Is she lost in thought? Maybe regret? Or maybe it's just sheer exhaustion. It’s been, he thinks, a very long week, month, and year for us.

When she opens her eyes, the anger is gone. She undresses quickly and climbs in his bunk.

He wants to pull away, but she says, “Please, Sam,” and there is something in her tone that seeps into his skin. The soothing familiarity of it makes him realize how much he wants her next to him.

"Please, Sam," Kara repeats, and he closes his eyes against the power of those simple words. She rises up, now on top of him. “Please make me believe we’re the people we used to be.”

Kara’s voice whispers against the hairs on the back of his neck, settling into his skin, coursing through his blood with the swiftness of an aphrodisiac. Whenever she says his name in that whisper, he feels it with all of his senses, leaving him completely and utterly aware of every facet of her. And then she is pulling his clothes off and sinking down onto him, and he cries out without words.

She leans down, nipples brushing against his chest. His hands come up to tangle in her hair and she rakes the backs of her nails down his arm and chest until the marks stand out on his skin. He lies still, letting her move, rocking back and forth with an unhurried but steady rhythm.

After, he lies awake for hours, sleeping only fitfully, broken sleep fractured by nightmares and nameless dread. And when he finally breaks free from sleep, he finds her crying next to him. Curled up on her side, with her face hidden under one hand, she pretends to sleep, but little gasping sobs give her away. She is folded in on herself like a dying beetle, and he lies flat on his back next to her, unsure she if wants his comfort, or even if there is anything more he can give her.


End file.
